


Good Intentions. Bad Designs.

by Antiago



Category: The Walking Dead (Telltale Video Game), The Walking Dead (Video Games)
Genre: AU, Alcohol, Angsty Schmoop, Drabble, Dubious Consent, Impaired Judgement, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, No Muertas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-28
Updated: 2017-03-28
Packaged: 2018-10-12 06:51:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10484889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Antiago/pseuds/Antiago
Summary: Luke always means what he says. Until he forgets.





	

"She's a good person," Luke tells him. Sincere. Predictable. 

Nick knows the rest of this tune by heart. He raises his drink. Tries to drown it out. 

"It's over but, I mean, we'll definitely stay frie-- woah! Ouch. Shit. Are you ok?"

Nick sets the bottle down with the exaggerated care of someone latently recalling the importance of fine motor control. He raises a hand to his lower lip. 

Luke is already there. His thumb comes away specked with blood. 

"Y'know you're supposed to open your mouth first, right?" he asks. 

Laughing at him. 

Concerned for him. 

One as real as the other because this asshole knows how to do both.

And doesn't know how to keep his hands to himself. 

_(Doesn't know how not to pull people towards him like a heavyweight on a trampoline)._

"Sorry," he's saying, tone gone rueful, "Man, it's later than I thought. I'm talking you to death. Again. The things I put you through, right?"

It is late. 

They're in the office which is actually a garage which is actually more of a bachelor flat. Nick is doing most of the drinking. Luke is doing most of the talking. 

"'m fine," Nick mutters. 

"I think you split your lip."

Nick grunts. Shrugs. 

Because Luke's fingers are still on the side of his face. Because he's out of safe words to say. 

Luke's laugh is self-conscious. "Sorry," he says again. He carefully pulls Nick's lip away from his teeth. Checks the damage. Natural at it-- like it's normal. Like candy on an open palm or concern over a skinned knee or pushing the boy who pushed a friend who hadn't known that he was.

Taking it for granted. Not noticing, never noticing, that Nick didn't. Couldn't. 

"Got yourself good," he says wincing in sympathy. "That's going to swell." He finally lets go.

Too late. 

_Too fucking late._

Nick has an overwhelming urge to kick his friend off of the sofa. He doesn't. He doesn't do anything. And then he does something worse. 

Self-pity is an inconsiderate bitch. She fucks him over every time.

He's too slow in slumping to the side. Too hasty in batting his cap down over his eyes.

"Woah," says Luke, "Woah, hey, Nick, what's-- are you-- what's wrong?" 

In his space again. Hand-- _Jesus_ \-- hand on his fucking knee and two fingers tipping his cap back so that there's nowhere to hide from the concern in his eyes because he's _Luke_ , because he doesn't know how not to be, and because right now a glassy-eyed fuck-up is the center of his world for all the wrong reasons. 

Nick tries to shake him off. Kicks the coffee table by accident. The bottle tips and beer splashes his legs. Soaks the carpet. His socks. 

That should be the distraction he needs, should be enough, but it isn't because Luke is still staring at him. Stricken. Confused. _Clueless._

"Rachael Klaus," he spits out. Needing to push Luke away. Too scared to touch him. "Lucy Smaltz. Lucinda Leeroy. Alison Quake."

Luke opens his mouth. Flounders. "Uh? What?" He still looks bewildered but the unexpected venom in Nick's tone is having the desired effect. He's drawing back. Hands to himself. 

Looking worried. Looking scared. Looking completely ready to blame himself and Nick--

Nick can't stop. 

It spills out of him like a playground chant, like the song that never ends, like being the most obnoxious brat to ever shout himself hoarse in gradeschool and getting away with it because Luke was doing it too and there was nothing that could make people hate Luke. 

Not even this. Not even the way he could make them feel when it was over. 

"They still text me," he says. Bitterness gives him the illusion of control. Gives him a sing-song steadiness that makes him feel every bit as sober as he isn't. "All of them. And we chat. And they ask about you."

He tilts his head back against the couch until looking up at Luke feels like looking down at him. Until it's all relative. 

His eyes are dry now. Burned that way as if he'd been blinking away acid instead of salt. 

"'How's Luke?'" he mimics, high pitched and wrong, "'Is Luke ok?' 'What's Luke up to these days?' 'Tell Luke I said hi!'"

He watches the wheels turning in his friend's head. Watches alarm turn to prenascent guilt. Loves it. Luke looks like a deer caught in headlights. 

_(And Nick feels like he's driving uncle Pete's truck full-throttle)._

_(All gassed up and unstoppable)._

_(All power and no control)._

"Rachael," Luke says, getting it wrong. Again. Always. "You had a thing for her? I thought maybe but you never said anything and then--"

Nick laughs in his face. 

And crashes. 

Because Luke's going still. Reversing gears. His stupidly slack face draws tight and his eyes turn inwards, tracking across terrain which has all the answers to anyone who's looking.

"Forget it," Nick growls. He lurches upright. Shoves Luke away on his way past. 

_Shit._

It feels like stomping on the edge of a cliff. Daring it. And then watching in horror as the ground calls his bluff and fucking _caves_.

He was never going to take that jump but now he's falling anyway. 

Unmetaphorically. 

Because standing up that quickly? Not a great idea. 

He stumbles forward anyway and lets the room spin around him until it crashes into Luke. 

Luke, who is doing the exactly worst thing. 

_Who should know better._

But doesn't, because sometimes nobody can be crueler than a genuinely nice guy. 

Nick presses a hand over Luke's mouth. Seals it off. Fucking quarantines it the way any sane person would. 

"We'll stay friends, right?" he asks, cold and rhetorical and wanting it to hurt, "Cause I'm such a good person, right?"

He gets sad, sad eyes and humid breath against chilled fingers when Luke opens his mouth for an answer which Nick doesn't want to hear. 

_It's over,_ Nick thinks, _It's over anyway._

Everything he'd protected. Everything they'd been able to take for granted. Comfortable. Accustomed. 

He moves his hand to the back of Luke's head because now there are no choices that he won't regret. 

He'll take what he can get. 

_(And try to live with having had it)._

\- - - 

"We're different," Luke tries to tell him later. In the aftermath. In the wreckage he doesn't recognize.

 _They were all different,_ Nick thinks, sore and aching and empty, _they were all special._

_Until they weren't._


End file.
